


Phases & Star Maps

by Engelikal



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bad Ending, Fics of Varying Length, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Lucio Is A Creep, Memory Loss, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Actually Unrequited Love, One Shot Collection, Other, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Requited Unrequited Love, Varying Levels of Spicy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engelikal/pseuds/Engelikal
Summary: A collection of Arcana fics that have escaped my docs, written with my own Apprentice in mind, though some may be nonspecific enough to insert your own.~. . .X.It would be better if Lucio had put Muriel in the ring with Asra.  At least Muriel would know what to do.  (Muriel, MC.)XI.Whatever fear has its hold on the guards is lost to Lucio. If anything, he seems more enticed. (Lucio, MC. GladiatorAU continued.)XII."I'm still worried about those eels..."  (Nadia/MC)XIII.He wakes up one day and their eyes are just.  Blank.  (Asra/MC.  Asra's first use of the memory spell a la The Hierophant chapter.)





	1. Chapter Index

**I.  Lacuna:**   _“Is this your favorite type of tea?” They ask, and it pulls at something within him._ (Asra, MC)

 

**II.  Umbra:**   _Why would you even go there?_   (Lucio, MC)

 

**III.  Apolune:** _Their lips form around Asra’s name with a sort of familiarity that is startling...but what really troubles them is the adoration they somehow manage to wrap so tightly around the syllables._  
(Asra/MC, unrequited requited love due to memory loss shenanigans)

 

**IV.  Occultation:**   (Julian/Asra, pining for MC)

 

**V.  Eclipse:** _An empath who does not know themselves is a dangerous thing. You could become anyone._ (Asra/MC, Bad Ending)

 

**VI.  Satellite:** _He remembers to forget the feeling of never belonging anywhere._ (Asra/MC)

 

**VII.  Gravity:** _"How many times have we kissed?"_ (Asra/MC)

 

**VIII.  Falling Star:**   _An unwelcomed welcome._ (Muriel, MC)

 

**IX.  Selenography:** _“Is this really_ _necessary?”_ (Nadia/MC)

 

**X.  Orbit:** _It would be better if Lucio had put Muriel in the ring with Asra.  At least Muriel would know what to do._   (Muriel, MC.  Gladiator AU)

 

**XI.  Barycenter:** _Whatever fear has its hold on the guards is lost to Lucio. If anything, he seems more enticed._ (Lucio, MC.  Gladiator AU)

 

**XII. Cetus:** _"I'm still worried about those eels..."_ (Nadia/MC)

 

**XIII. Nova** :  _He wakes up one day and their eyes are just.  Blank._ (Asra/MC. Asra's first use of the memory spell a la The Hierophant chapter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) I always appreciate these in one shot compilations and 2.) I couldn't keep all the chapter summaries in the Actual Summary forever, so... 3.) This fic isn't very many chapters long yet so making this is probably a little premature.


	2. Lacuna (Asra, MC)

_**Lacuna** : Gaps.  Empty spaces.  A name for the dry lakes on a Moon. _

 

“Is this your favorite type of tea?” They ask, and it pulls at something within him. The feeling is akin to hunger, reminiscent of days spent without food, pouring himself into them, trying in vain to fill the empty places where their memories should lie. It is a hunger far more poignant than any he could possibly suffer from by lack of food.

 

 _No_ , he stops himself from saying.  _It’s yours._

 

“I’m quite fond of it,” is what he settles on. Vague. An answer but not answer. How can he explain it to them, without causing them pain? He sets the teapot down on the table and disperses cups of tea, setting one at his apprentice’s side and hoarding the other. 

 

He accidentally catches his reflection in the muddled water as he sets it down, and finds that he has to look away.

 

It could be worse, is the mantra he repeats to himself. It could be so much worse...

 

After all, he thinks, refocusing his attention on his…student. He has not lost them completely. He doubts he would recognize himself at all if he did. As it is, they sit across from him. Memoryless, but here. Staring at him. And he reads the exasperation in their expression as easily as he reads the cards in their hands.

 

“All right,” they sigh, “keep your secrets.” Turning their eyes downcast and away from him, they focus once again on the Arcana. Apparently divining him is more difficult than divining the cards.

 

They turn over the first card.

 

Ah.

 

The Moon.

 

Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fished around for a title for way longer than I should like to admit,  tbh.
> 
> Also, lemme just say that the extent of the MC's memory loss feels...somewhat vague, in canon? To me? (Which was probably on purpose, lol).  But full disclosue: I made my own Apprentice's memory loss.....pretty bad.  Like, 'time to relearn all my favorite foods!' bad.  Because I'm awful and I can.
> 
> Also also, today I learned that memoryless and memorylessness are Actual Words in the Actual English Language(tm)!


	3. Umbra (Lucio, MC)

_**Umbra** :  The name given to a shadow cast by a Moon (or other celestial object) that entirely blocks out illumination. _

 

It is dark, unnaturally dark, a deep and unending void that their eyes can hardly penetrate.  The light they summon to their palm barely cuts through the haze, the normally bright beam reduced to a dim, broken halo.  They reach out to find a wall or--or _something_ to brace themselves on, something to ground them in this floating space of unreality.  They feel something _pulling_ at them, displacing their sense of proprioception until they have to consciously fight to keep hold of their awareness.  When their fingers finally find something to brace themselves on they pull their hand away as if burnt.  The texture of the wall is chalky, unnatural and covered in a layer of what feels like thick dust.

 

The air is loud around them, a storm of energy slamming against the rocks of their mind’s shores, a cacophony of sound, an ocean of red screaming to swallow them up, to pull them below water and course into their lungs until they are _choking_ on the aura of **red, red, red** that surrounds them. They breath deep, ignoring the feeling of eyes on them, the prickle of claws against the back of their neck.  The strength that wells up in them is uncalled for, but not unwelcome.  The inkling of something close to fear ebbs away, the tide receding, and in its place they feel calm shores.  The smell of myrrh and protective herbs.  A ground firm beneath their feet.

 

They turn around, sparing only a glance towards the curiosity nagging at them to continue on.  A voice echoes, quiet but ominous, a hiss of a whisper.  Their knuckles are white against the skin of the leather hex bag they are holding.

 

**‘You’ll be back.’**

 

They swear they hear a whisper of their name, just before they walk back into the light of the palace hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on mobile so I'm sorry if formatting is off!
> 
> I reccomend everyone listen to You'll Be Back from Hamilton while thinking of Lucio. That is all.


	4. Apolune (Asra/MC)

_**Apolune:**  The point farthest from the Moon reached by an object in its orbit._

 

Their lips form around Asra’s name with a sort of familiarity that is startling.  The way it flows so naturally, bubbling up from inside of them like a freshwater spring.  That alone would be cause for alarm, but what really troubles them is the adoration they somehow manage to wrap so tightly around the syllables.

  
  
His name, rolling off their tongue, feels too... intimate.  

 

Yes, that's it.

 

Too intimate.

 

Intimate in a way that goes beyond sharing the same living space.  Beyond the early morning scent of smoky tea and the quiet shuffle of cards committed to a daily reading.  It is a living thing, this feeling, with a life of its own.  Something that surpasses the gentle reassurance of Asra’s breath falling into step with theirs as they both curl up in bed together, close but never touching.

 

Close, but still so far away.

 

Too far, they think.

 

But they don't know why it is they think that, why it is they are so _sure_ of that, is the thing.

 

Because this....feeling that they have it’s--

  
  
Intimate in a way that is foreign.

 

Or, should be.  With no memory.

 

Should be, but isn't, which is a thought so perplexing it leaves them with nothing but a wave of fatigue and a pounding pulse between their eyes.  They try to push past it, past the deep well of black fog that surrounds their past, but all that rests beneath is a wave of nausea.  Sharp spikes of pain dig into their temples, so intense that they can think of nothing else, that they forget how to breathe.  Lightning across their vision, a beacon of white hot agony juxtaposed against the fringes of blackness beginning to color their peripherals and then--

  
  
Asra helps them off the floor.  It’s been minutes, or seconds, knowing Asra (so attentive, ever watchful, always patient, dare they think that their own affection must be mirrored in him?) but they feel like they’ve been passed out for days.  They struggle to stand on unsteady legs, only to have Asra sweep them up into his arms.  Their protests are mild at best as they find themselves deposited on the bed, Asra’s gentle fingers brushing against their forehead.  “Another headache?” he asks, brows drawn up in concern.  

  
  
They nod, not fully trusting their voice.  It was worse this time.  “I--” they begin to croak, the sound startling and painful.  It reminds them of how things were at the beginning, and _that_ is a road they would rather not walk down.  They don't want to think about how things were at first, don't want to recall the sounds of nonsense syllables tumbling out of their mouth as they struggled to remind their lips how to form words.  They clear their throat, helplessly, and Asra, already knowing what they need, is halfway across the room.

  
  
The clay feels cool against their skin as Asra places a mug of water into their hands.  Their lips quirk up at him gratefully.  They peer at him through their lashes as they drink, trying to guess the emotions flitting across his face.

  
  
The room is quiet, filled only with the sound of them sipping their water.  Asra takes the cup back when it is empty.  There are miles of silence between the two of them. Asra looks off into the distance, somewhere far away that they are not ( ~~are no longer?~~ ) permitted to see.

  
  
Asra notices their stare and smiles a storm clouded smile, turning his back as he moves to discard the empty cup.  His face may be hidden, but they can still read the hard line of his shoulders.  His breathing is carefully even as he tinkers with the various dirty dishes.  Faust peeks out from under his clothes and winds herself tightly around his shoulders, a comforting gesture that worries them to see.  He stays turned away from them for a very long time.

  
  
Their name leaves his lips in the form of a wistful sigh, though his countenance is carefully guarded, neutral, when he turns to them again.  His eyes are still focused on some point far away.  This time, though, they read a glimmer of...determination?...in those amethyst depths.

 

“I want you to try not to remember from now on.  Next time…  What if the damage is beyond repair?”

  
  
It seems an overreaction.  They are a little bruised from the fall, sure, and the last vestige of their headache still lingers, but these things seem so small when the reward is the _answer_ .  The answer to their question of _why_ he is the first presence they look for in the morning, why he is the warmth they need beside them to sleep well at night.

  
  
There is something in his expression, though, ( _desperation_ ) that steals their words from them.

  
  
So they agree.

  
  
“Of course, Master.”

  
  
His name, rolling off their tongue, feels too...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am forever unapologetic about the fact that I don't edit these before posting. :3


	5. Occultation (Julian/Asra, pining for MC)

_**Occultation** : The act of one celestial body obscuring another as a result of moving between the observer and the object being observed._

 

There is ( ~~_was_ ~~ ) a tenderness in Emrys’ eyes, a bright strand of light weaving through their stare, reserved only for him.  He basks in it, wraps it around himself like moonlight, bathes in the gentle glow.  Lets himself relax and sink into a soft gossamer embrace of silvery grey fabric.

 

Asra could spend an eternity writing prose and never quite pin down the color of Emrys’ eyes.

 

Ilya’s eyes are the color of steel.  Of flint.  Of grey.

 

Asra feels the plague doctor’s eyes trace his every move, feels their owner hunger for what scraps Asra can feed him from the table where his heart lays flayed.

 

It is a bastardization of love that the two of them share.  Ilya knows that Asra cannot _truly_ give him what he wants.

 

 _That,_  Asra thinks, _may even be the point._

 

Asra buries his fingers into dark red locks, wrenching hard on the strands.  He bares Ilya’s neck, taking in the sensual scene with an almost clinical detachment.  Ilya grins, and his bruised lip cracks in response.  A drop of crimson blood wells up and slides slowly down his pale throat.  He shudders and grins even wider, encouraging his split lip to worsen.

 

“I want to try something different.”  Asra drawls; he’s asking, but he already knows the answer.

 

“Yes,” Ilya begs in reply.  He doesn't even hesitate.  Never does.  “Anything.”

 

Scratch that.  Asra is almost sure that's the point, considering the way Ilya seems to _crave_ suffering.

 

Asra could spend an eternity writing prose and never quite pin down the color of Emrys’ eyes.

 

To call them simply ‘grey’ would be an egregious oversight.

 

As he winds the blindfold tightly across Ilya's eyes, he allows himself a secret, bitter smile.

 

Grey, it seems, is close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I designed my MC with grey eyes, then belatedly realized that Julian also has grey eyes.
> 
> Headcannons were made.
> 
> 03/03/18 Edit: Asra seems to refer to Julian exclusively as Ilya (in the past, at least?) and since it's from his point of view I decided to be consistent and call him Ilya in narration as well as dialouge. Bc I over think things.


	6. Eclipse (Asra/MC, Bad Ending)

_**Eclipse** : an obscuring of the light from one celestial body by the passage of another between it and the observer; or between it and its source of illumination. _

 

 

“An empath who does not know themselves is a dangerous thing.”

 

It is a matter of fact statement, and Emrys’ voice is smooth, without worry, as they explain it to him. Asra rests his face in his palm, entranced by their every movement. Emrys traces the lines of the rune stones placed on the table, brows furrowed in concentration. Try as he might to focus on their magic lessons (and that is what they are, truly, as much as Emrys might insist that the two of them are sharing knowledge, Asra is under no disillusion as to which one of them is the master here) he finds that, more and more, he's become distracted by a different kind of spell.

 

“Learning how to separate your emotions from anyone else’s would be impossible. You could _become_ anyone.” Emrys muses, eyes flicking up to Asra’s as they abandon their reading in favor of checking in on their student.

 

Their cheeks color as they take in Asra’s dreamy expression. This really isn’t what he meant when he said he wanted to know more about Emrys’ particular brand of magic.  It should be frustrating, but Asra can't find it in himself to call it anything other than utterly adorable when Emrys fails to realize he is flirting with them.

 

“Oh,” they whisper, the blush sprawling down their neck. They look down, pretending to examine their rune stones once again. The pink hue spreading across their face, though, gives their true thoughts away.

 

Asra grins, leaning farther into his own touch, purple eyes alight with fondness. They peer up at him after a moment, looking shyly through dark lashes, and he finds his grin growing cheshire as their gazes meet. “You’re so cute, Emrys~.” He teases them. For an empath, Emrys certainly has managed to be dense about his feelings for them.

 

Emrys huffs a little and looks away again, appearing to gather their courage. Preparing themselves to meet his telling stare. They start to cross their arms, adopting the pose of a petulant child, before they chase the blooming amusement in his eyes and purposely right themselves, straightening their posture and setting their shoulders back with purpose.

 

Asra can't help it.

 

He laughs.

 

They pout, and he can’t help but keep laughing, his heart inexplicably light and happy beneath the weight of their gaze. “How was I supposed to know that this feeling I was feeling was not mine alone?” they accuse. Emrys slips their way across the table and perches on the end. Their ankles brush against Asra’s thighs. He feels his own face begin to heat. The brush of Emrys’ fingers upon his face is gentle, soothing. They tilt his face toward them, and the two of them kiss for the first time.

 

It is everything Asra has wanted, and more.

...

“I feel like I know you.”

 

The words stop Asra’s heart in its tracks, fill it with a heat so searing that it is painful. Emrys’ words are soft, touched by melancholy. Parched, like a wanderer traveling alone in the desert with no map and no destination.

 

He turns, cautiously shifting in their shared bed so that he might look upon their face. Oh, how he longs to see that spark of cognizance in their eyes. That light of recognition that would shine far brighter than any of the stars in the sky. All he wants is to hear his name spill from those lips again…

 

Emrys is looking at the ceiling, gaze focused on some faraway place, beyond the roof, beyond even the sky. Somewhere that, try as he might, Asra cannot follow. A place that he cannot (yet) bring them back from.

 

They turn to smile at him, bitter and tired and uncharacteristic.

 

“But that is ridiculous, isn't it?” Emrys’ silvery grey eyes close, blocking him out from their world.

 

“...I don’t even know myself...”

…

“What am I…to you?”

 

Emrys asks. And Asra answers.

 

He cannot keep himself from answering. Cannot keep himself from that weakness. But he has to be careful. He does not know what the next trigger will be, and he cannot bear to watch them go catatonic again. He cannot face those empty eyes.

 

“That’s why it’s so hard...to make you forget,” he murmurs.

 

And they do.  They _have_.

 

He has to lock away his love. He could not bear it if he influenced Emrys. Emrys, who is so vulnerable to outside influence, so fragile without their memories. He has to shield them from the blunt force of his longing, at least until they can recover more memories...

 

Yes, Asra decides. Until then.

...

This is not what he thought they meant. This is a world more terrifying than any nightmare he can conjure.

 

“Oh Asra,” the lilt of that voice and the gentle touch of this hand were not meant to coincide.

 

The smirk on Emrys’ face is familiar, but unfitting.  It is an expression Asra knows well, but it doesn't belong _here_.  Not on this face.

 

Asra's heart is rebelling, pounding against his ribcage, and yet he cannot move. He is frozen. Trapped in this spot as Emrys’ hands tilt his face towards them. Emrys’ lips kiss his cheeks, but it is Lucio’s laughter ringing in his ears.

 

“Nothing can compare to the real thing, of course, but...”

 

The press of teeth against his cheek as the count grins is predatory. Animal.

 

_“I think I’m going to like it here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I love Bad Endings.


	7. Satellite (Asra/MC)

_**Satellite** : Any object that orbits another celestial body. _

 

Emrys makes Asra feel...

 

What sort of word could possibly be strong enough to describe everything that Emrys makes him feel?

 

He no longer feels like an endless desert, blazing hot and reaching onwards and onwards, unable to quench his thirst as he stretches himself on until the last grain.  He no longer feels like he needs to keep on moving, forever, no longer feels like he is caught up in quicksand, trapped, stagnant. Gone are the reoccurring dreams of the beach where he grew up, an orphan.  

 

He remembers to forget the feeling of never belonging anywhere.

 

Emrys weaves toward him from the other side of the market, appearing quite suddenly from wherever they had wandered off to in order to hand him their purchase: a ridiculously large sackcloth bag full of lapsang souchong. Asra grins and accepts the gift with a kiss just to the side of Emrys’ lips.

 

Their noses bump as Emrys tilts their head, keen on aligning their lips more properly, the moon grey of their eyes dancing with his--

 

One single point in the universe, completely his, contained into one moment, that seems to span everything--

 

Asra offers only the faintest brush of his lips across theirs in return, laughing as Emrys seems to struggle with the opposing tides of being embarrassed when someone whistles wolfishly at them versus the impulse to pout about the fact that Asra pulled away before they could deepen their kiss.  Emrys manages to pull off doing both simultaneously fairly well.

 

Asra pulls them close, the scent of his favorite tea and his favorite person mingling together in his senses.  It’s a comforting aroma that makes him feel sleepy. The fat, full bellied satisfaction kind of sleepy, the kind you feel after a particularly lavish meal.  All he wants to do is curl up in a pile of pillows and hold them for hours. He wants to map out the stars on their skin, to taste the vast expanse of the universe on their lips again and again until he can’t remember anything else.

 

Emrys fails lean into his embrace for a second, merely humming mischievously, their expression playful as they seem to consider the merits of dancing their way out of Asra’s arms as retribution for his earlier teasing.  The notion passes in a heartbeat as they settle into his side with a toothy smile, their fingers twining together with his, fitting together like a horizon.

 

“Do you want to get pumpkin bread on the way home?” they ask, and Asra replies with an affirmative before his mind can fully catch up.

 

He feels Faust squeeze his arm lightly, her presence a comforting weight against his shoulders as he finds himself nearly winded by a striking realization, caught up in a current of new and unexpected.

 

There it is.  The name of the concept his brain has been chasing after for months. 

 

_Home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsure noises??


	8. Gravity (Asra/MC, A Lil Spicy)

**_Gravity_ ** _: the attractive force which governs the motion of the celestial bodies._

 

“Asra?”  Emrys whispers.  They are pressed against his side, voice nearly muffled in his clothing.  They do not ask if he is awake. Somehow, they already know.

 

He basks in the warmth of waking up next to them, keeping his eyes closed against the outside world.  As long as they are closed, there is only this. Emrys and himself, their bodies tightly aligned, arms wrapped around each other.  He holds Emrys, and Emrys holds him back. He inhales their scent, each breath acting as an assurance to himself: _they’re still here._

 

Their heartbeat.  Thrumming against him, singing in his bones.  He feels it resonate in his very core as if it were his own.

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

_They’re still here._

 

Not only that, but he can _hold_ them again.  He can hold them, and it is a lover’s embrace.  When they call for him, it is his name that they use, not some title that was never his to begin with.

 

“Asra.”  They say it again.  His name graces their lips, and _stars, it feels so good to hear._  Emrys pulls back to look at him, forcing him to adjust his hold in order to keep them in his arms.  The thought of ~~_losing them_~~ letting go is unthinkable.  The motion of shifting his embrace from their shoulders down to their waist (the act of pulling them _closer_ once again) comes to him as naturally as does drawing air into his lungs.  He doesn't even think about it. In the same way he does not consider suffocating.

 

He tightens his grip, reveling in the contact, in wading through the dark moonlight gleam of their eyes when he finally opens his own.  He presses his forehead against theirs. Emrys’ every exhale is a sweet caress, fanning against his cheek. Their every inhale is another breath that Asra has shared with them.  

 

He merely hums by way of reply: a single, long note with a teasing lilt.  He makes no move to untangle himself from them, or the sheets. He has no intention of letting this moment go so soon.

 

“How many times have we kissed?”

 

He goes still.  At first, it is only surprise, but it does not take long for that to wear off--for wariness to lock his bones.  “W-what?” He stumbles over the word, tongue lead in his throat.

 

“By your count, I mean.  How many times have you and I kissed?”

 

Asra cannot keep the heavy thoughts from bleeding into his voice.  “Emrys…” he sighs, tired and wistful. He idly tucks a stray lock of long ebony hair behind their ear.  It's hard to keep a secret from someone when you want, _so badly_ , for them to know it.

 

When he does not say anything more, Emrys wriggles out of his arms, and (reluctantly) Asra unlocks his hold from around them.  They do not go far, but rather they place a palm against the bed at either side of his head, knees dipping heavily into the mattress where they once lay. They loom over him, a gorgeous vision, and gaze at him with pleading eyes.

 

“Please, Asra.  It is only a number.  Surely, just a number wouldn't hurt?”

 

His will is torn in twain as he struggles with the dueling urges of bowing to Emrys’ every request versus the need to be silent for their safety.  It was mere days ago that he was so careless with them when they reached out to him at the fountain. But still there is a part of him that is shamefully, selfishly tempted to try and tell Emrys--to give them the answer to the question that they have asked again.  It is _too_ natural for him to try and pull them closer.

 

He struggles to reign in the overwhelming _desire_ he has for them.  For them to remember.  For the way things once were...

 

No.

 

The person he cares for, more than anything else, is still by his side.  Even if they gain back every single memory except the ones of him, that would be enough.

 

He smiles sadly, his mind made up.  He shakes his head slightly to ward off the bittersweet nostalgia.  “You always have such deep thoughts in the morning, Emrys. I wonder if it’s that honesty you have in dreams.  Maybe it’s rubbing off on you in the waking life.” He hopes so. He’s been glad to watch them return to themselves.  To the brazen, forthright Emrys they were when he first met them.

 

He tries to avoid their question with his teasing, but he finds that he can’t.  Not this time. He is still pinned below their intent gaze.

 

“What could a number mean?” He asks them.  Or, maybe it’s himself he’s asking. He’s hurt them with smaller phrases, more menial things.

 

“...It's important to me…”

 

“...”

 

What can he possibly say to that?

 

“Even just an estimate.  Greater than fifty? Fewer than one hundred?”

 

“Not enough,” Asra breathes out, more to himself than to Emrys.  He is rewarded all the same when Emrys shifts their weight, movements fluid and graceful as they straddle him.  They kiss him, promptly bringing their lips together.

 

His reaction is automatic.

 

The two of them meld against each other, kissing with the passion and practice of old lovers.  Emrys’ hands press against his chest, dipping into the loose fabric of his shirt and exploring the contours of his body.  Asra’s own hands return to Emrys’ waist, their night sky hair tickling against his wrists as he indulges in the skin laid bare by their cropped tunic.  Their kiss deepens. Emrys explores his mouth boldly, and Asra responds in kind. His breath is leaving him in deep gasps as they meet each others lips again and again. He draws them closer once more, leaving no space at all in between them.

 

Shared caresses increase in intensity.  Emrys’ fingertips brush against his nipples, their stare heady against his as he groans.  Asra begins kissing his way down towards their clavicle in retaliation. A sense of intoxication rushes through him as they bare their neck to him, allowing him to lavish a trail of gentle bites and kisses along their throat.  He can feel their throat work against every sigh of pleasure, the sound goading him onwards, encouraging his hands to wander.

 

Their hips roll against one another hungrily and--

 

Quite suddenly, everything stops.

 

They freeze in place, eyes meeting as a cool breeze of clarity washes over them both, dulling the frenzied heat of arousal.

 

Neither of them are ready for this.

 

They settle in beside one another, panting.  Asra’s heart pounds against his breastbone, resonating throughout his entire being.  His body aches for more contact, but his soul is content in the torment. Emrys’ hand brushes against his, and Asra twines their fingers together without a second thought.  He brings it up to his lips, kissing their knuckles chastely.

 

“Why is it important to you?”  Asra finally asks, when he trusts his voice again.  He doesn’t bother trying to evade by asking Emrys why it is they are so sure the two of them have kissed more times than their memory holds.  Even if he could bring himself to do it, any hope he might have had of convincing them sailed away with the past several minutes. Not that he has any regrets.

 

“...Because I know it’s been more times for you than it has for me.”  Emrys finally responds, voice a bleak murmur. They turn on their side, prompting Asra to do the same so that the conversation might take place face to face.  Their cheeks are still heavily flushed, and Asra can read some lingering traces of embarrassment in their posture, but their eyes are earnest. “I want to understand.”  Emrys explains, squeezing his fingers briefly. “I know I can’t...” They bite their lip, trailing off without finishing. “But I meant it when I said we’re stronger together than apart.  You shouldn’t have to do this alone, Asra. Even if I don’t have those memories back yet, I want to be able to be there for you. I want to understand the pain you’re in, and I want to understand...”  their eyes drop from his. He gets the feeling that there is something they are not telling him. “...What you lost.”

 

“I didn’t lose anything, Emrys.”  Asra kisses their forehead. It hurts.  Of course it hurts. He is littered with wounds so deep that he can feel them in his aura.  He will never forget what it felt like to have Emrys look at him and not know him. He lives every moment in fear of seeing it again.  But they’re still here. More than that, by some blessing he can kiss them again. _They want him._  He cannot let himself think that they love him, not yet, but--but they could.  Again. Someday.

 

“I’ll always come back to you, Asra.”  Emrys vows, abruptly. “I will always find you.”

 

Asra has never seen this expression on their face.  He can't find a name for it, though he wonders if Emrys has seen it on his own face, more than once.

 

It is a determination to fight against the hand that fate has dealt, an adoration that runs so deep it feels like not even the stars could rewrite it.

 

“No matter how many times I forget.”

 

They seal it with a kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) THANK YOU FOR ALL THE KUDOS AND THE BOOKMARKS!! :D
> 
> 2.) I wanted to make a scene for what happened the morning before they leave for Vesuvia again in the Away From It All chapter of Asra's Strength book. Extrapolations are fun.
> 
> 3.) I reference Coin Scenes really often and I'm sorry. :(
> 
> 4.) Memory loss shenanigans in romance are also so fun??? I just love the thought that the Apprentice being completely aware that the depth of their feelings for Asra makes no sense in the context of having no memories. But then the more they are with Asra the more they come to accept that those feelings are real, even if they can't remember why it is they have always had them. Except, then, they have to get ASRA to accept that they are totally still in love with him and like they KNOW that he thinks that their relationship means more to him than it does to them and then it is like: "Oh no, are things different from before?" and just UGH. I get all the sweet, sweet UST and unrequited love plots I crave while also getting the resolved and the requited too, haha!


	9. Falling Star (Muriel, MC)

 

 **_Falling Star:_ ** _A bright streak of light that appears briefly in the night sky when a meteoroid enters the atmosphere of a celestial body.  Most meteoroids burn up before reaching the surface._

  


“Are you here for a reading?”

 

Muriel jumps, in spite of himself.  It’s been so long since anyone other than Asra has spoken to him.  He has lost track of how many months have gone by since he has drawn so much as a passing glance from another person.  He has long since perfected the art of being unnoticed, forgotten.

 

“Are you all right?” Emrys prods, when he does not respond.  They stand up from where they had been sitting, grimacing as their bones pop, protesting movement after a long period of time unused.  Muriel had come across them reclining cross legged on the stoop of their magic shop, back curved against the door as they slouched into their hand with a far off look in their eyes.  There had been naught but a threadbare rug between them and the ground, and they soon judge their attempts of beating the dust off of their clothes to be in vain. They give him an unsure smile, their silver grey eyes far too open, spilling their emotions out like drying ink on a page.  

 

The smile slips, slowly fading as he fails, again, to respond.  Muriel begins to turn away, deeming the one sided conversation over, when out of the corner of his eye he sees them take a few steps forward.  “Wait!” they call--and it is the threat of their _sudden movement_ that causes him to turn around.  It is the instinctual response of countless, battle torn years that urges him keep them out of his peripheral, **_not_ ** any need to comply with their wishes.  He’s quite done taking orders. He scowls at them, feeling the intensity of it split his lips across his teeth.  It stops them in their tracks.

 

They put their hands up, either in shock or else to ward off any incoming attacks. When Muriel fails to do anything more threatening than glare at them they, like an utter fool, begin to inch towards him again.  They keep their palms raised at the level of their chest so that he can clearly see if they make _anymore_ sudden movements.  

 

Like someone might do with an **_animal_ **.

 

His scowl deepens.  His eyes burn with his own, unblinking distaste.  Their approach halts once more when they catch sight of his expression, but their eyes do not stray from his shadowed face.  Their dark, thin brows are drawn into a mask of concern.

 

“Do you need help?” they query, voice soft.  And what really hits him is the utter sincerity with which they seem inclined to offer him their aide, should he seek it.

 

Muriel finds that he cannot stand to meet their earnest eyes any longer.  He feels a bead of sweat slide down the nape of his neck. He shifts, feeling terribly uncomfortable in his own skin while under their gaze.  “Not from _you_.” he finally bites out, voice low and rough from disuse.  He aims his own stare away, not wishing to bear the memory of their hurt expression.

 

Emrys’ hands begin to drop.  Their shoulders fall. Their chin comes to rest in the hollow of their collarbone as they stare at the ground.  “Did you come to see my Master…?” they ask, dejected. “I’m sorry, he’s...he’s not back yet.”

 

Muriel _knows_ that, because it is the only reason he is here.  He would not be venturing away from his solitude at all had Asra not asked him to check up on Emrys in his absence.  The things he does for his only friend. “You should get inside.” he states, unable to keep all of his vexation out of his voice.  He does try this time, though. Whether he likes it or not (he _does not_ ), Emrys is important to Asra.  “It’s not safe outside at night.  It’s Winter.” A shiver runs through his hulking frame as an unforgivingly chill gust of wind bites into him.  Emrys’ frail form trembles against the cold, a quivering drop of rain clinging to the gnarled white branches of an ancient tree.

 

They wrap their arms around themselves, shivering in earnest.  The last vestiges of warmth have bled out of the city as it approaches the witching hour.  “I’m...waiting.” They admit, as if that much wasn't obvious. Their eyes seek out his face again.  Hesitantly. “You could wait too? ...If you want.”

 

He longs for his home, the earthy smell of roots grounding him, protecting him, his own little enclosure, away from the world.

 

But Emrys is important to Asra.

 

So Muriel nods minutely, steadfastly ignoring Emrys’ resounding smile.

 

…

 

The smell of the shop is as foreign as it is familiar.  The air is thick with the scent of herbs, the drying rack heavy with a vast array of flora.  Beneath the sweet aroma of incense and everything that is distinctly _Emrys_ , he can detect the smell of smoky tea and the spices used in Asra’s cooking.  Another person might find the blend homely and pleasant. To Muriel it brings only bitterness.

 

“Can I get you something?”  Emrys’ lips thaw around their words, the syllables tumbling out clumsily.  They lead him past a heavy purple curtain and into the backroom where the readings are done.  Muriel stares at them unblinkingly. Their hopeful smile dims a little at the edges. “I’ll...make some tea!”  They offer at last.

 

Muriel sighs, gathering his bearings.  Now that Emrys is inside, he can leave.  He will have done his duty of keeping them safe, kept them from freezing to death for the fact that Asra stated he _might_ be back today, and they will forget all about him--again--now that he is gone from their sight.

 

At least.  That was the plan.  But alas, Emrys returns before he can pass through the partition.

 

They gasp, jolting a little as the two of them nearly collide, and Muriel wonders how badly they might panic to see a stranger inexplicably inside their home.  

 

But they don’t panic.

 

They only scramble to keep from dropping the teapot, cups, and cast iron hot plate that they are juggling.  “You startled me!” They accuse, their tone light and playful.

 

They still remember him.

 

“You aren’t...sitting down…?” the statement hesitantly inclines upwards, as if they can't decide whether or not it’s a question.  The bridge of their nose scrunches up, their confusion plain. Someone _else_ might be tempted to call it cute.  “Oh!” They look up at him, contrite eyes gleaming in the full faced moonlight pouring through the window.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t invite you to sit. You are--” they pause, cheeks coloring, “you’re my first guest, you see.  Er, first guest in a long time. I mean.”

 

Since they lost all of their memories, Muriel fills in for them.

 

Emrys gracefully goes about setting their bounty on the table.

 

Their magic sparks across the hot plate, attempting to heat the metal, then flickers out.  They huff, visibly frustrated, before taking a deep breath. They stand very still, and Muriel grimaces, blanching at the raw, untrained power seeping from them.  It is the dangerous result of a person who has the magical reserves, the incredible _force_ of a lifetime of practice beneath their belt, and the discipline of six measly months.  (Give or take. How long ago was it that Asra reset their memory? Time seems so meaningless now.)

 

When they open their eyes again, the hot plate burns a deep, unmistakable **_red_ **.

 

Surprisingly, the wood beneath the plate does not catch fire.  But Muriel withdraws from the table as if it had, reeling back as if burnt.

 

“I’m sorry!” Emrys begins, “I didn’t mean to--”

 

“You’re a monster.”

 

The words leave him before he can temper his thoughts.  He loves Asra, Asra is his family, but Emrys is-- _unnatural_.

 

Emrys is--

 

Is looking at him with such hurt in their eyes.

 

He has worn out his (unwelcomed) welcome.

 

Emrys’ voice chases him out the door, but he does not falter.

 

He fights down the sorrow rising in his throat, and tells himself there is no need to feel any guilt.

 

They won’t remember him anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try my hand at Muriel bc we're seeing a lot more of him! :3 (His scene in the updated prologue is adorable and hilarious.) Hopefully he is not...too OOC. (Did I make him too mean??? I did not intend to make him too mean. Any feedback would be appreciated, lol) ALSO, It is entirely possible that there is more Muriel to come bc I find this dynamic worth the exploration.


	10. Selenography (Nadia/MC)

**_Selenography:_ ** _The study and mapping of the Moon’s surface._

 

Emrys cannot remember the last time they stood still for this long.  Their memory only reaches back as far as the past three years, (not much time to look through,) so it is with no small amount of confidence that they firmly settle on _never._ They tap their bare toes idly against the dais upon which they stand, fidgeting idly whilst simultaneously trying not to move overmuch.  Their eyes focus on nothing in particular, having already divested the room of all its lavish detail. They shift their weight from one foot to the other, and, while adjusting their posture, they take a small step back without thinking.

 

The tailor, whose shawl they have nearly trampled on, shucks in an annoyed breath.

 

Emrys’ cheeks burn with embarrassment as they mutter a tiny wince of an apology.  An apology that goes unacknowledged and unaccepted by the harrowed person who is currently taking Emrys’ measurements with painstaking precision.

 

They straighten again, their resolve to remain still as stone rekindled as they submit to the tailor’s _hundredth_ measurement.  They gaze ahead, into the trio of mirrors towering at twice their height.  They find Nadia in the reflection, a vision of grace and comfort as she lounges on a chaise behind them, her elegant fingers turning the worn pages of a thick tome.  They shoot her a pointed look, burdened with accusation. She feels the weight of their gaze (her lips quirk the slightest bit at the corners) but she does not acknowledge their heavy stare.

 

Pouting, they ask: “Is this _really_ necessary?”

 

Her smile widens as she glances up from her book, meeting their eyes through their reflection.  “Why, Emrys. I would say it is overdue. I have been outfitting you some time now, but have been remiss in obtaining your exact measurements.”

 

Emrys is ushered to turn by the tailor, who then motions and mutters at them impatiently until Emrys catches on to their sentiment and raises an arm out for inspection.  They wait a moment to see if they will receive any further instruction, but the tailor is already lost to their own ministrations, moving their tape measure with lightning speed.

 

“And yet,” Emrys replies belatedly, “all the outfits you’ve given me have _fit_ .”  Probably for the grace of Nadia’s impeccable eye for detail, and also that outfit she had 'neglected' to return to them.  (Okay, so those clothes had been a little worse for the wear but not _unusable_ .  The hole in the knee gave those trousers _character_.  And maybe the sleeves were too long on the blouse but Emrys was fairly certain that was because it was actually Asra’s.)

 

Nadia clicks her tongue at them, expression sorrowful.  “You’re very generous towards my pride, Emrys, but you needn’t be.  You may be honest; that last garment was cut all wrong at the waist.”

 

_‘...It was?’_

 

The Countess sighs woefully, placing a long silk ribbon into the pages of her novel before setting it on the table beside her and walking the marble steps up to the dias to stand at Emrys’ side.  The tailor bows respectfully at her approach before returning to their work without a word.  As if sensing Emrys’ unspoken question, Nadia takes it upon herself to explain what fault she had found in the gorgeous silken vestments given to them the day prior.  “The hem ought to have sat right here,” she notes, her fingers trailing idly along their ribs. She ignores their sharp intake of breath, her warm palm sliding down their bare waist, wrapping just above the curve of their hip. “But instead it rested just here. And while I will not say it was overtly unflattering on you, my most esteemed magician, it was still an egregious oversight on my part.”

 

Her hand stays at their waist, thumb idly tracing the skin there.  Her eyes are teasing as they roam over Emrys’ face, and they are suddenly very aware that they are standing beside her wearing nothing but a pair of thin silk shorts.  Their face heats up, the warmth spreading down their chest as they wonder whether they are disappointed by the fact that Nadia’s eyes never dip any further down.  The woman before them seems content to merely drink in their expressions, amusement sparking in her eyes as they struggle to focus on anything other than the closeness of her lips.

 

They lean into the temptation, keen on feeling those perfect lips against their own, but she sweeps away from them at the last moment, making way for the tailor, who has come to evaluate Emrys’ other arm.  

 

They _barely_ stop their feet from following.

 

Nadia returns to her seat, reclining regally against the plush cushions of the couch.  She reopens her book, lounging back with a dangerous smile.

 

“Would you please double check all of those measurements when you are finished?” she requests of the tailor.  “The masquerade is coming up, after all.” The look she gives Emrys is nothing short of devious. “And I will tolerate nothing less than the very best for my beloved magician.”

 

It’s going to be a very, _very_ long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I secretly have so many more chapters but I was too busy being consumed by a momentary crippling fear of posting anything. Like haha, wouldn't it be spooky if people read the stuff I wrote. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Anyways, hope anyone reading enjoyed this and continues to enjoy it! <3
> 
> p.s. I changed the title of this fic a bit and I can and probably will wax on and on as to why at a later date. Mostly it is bc I associate The/My Apprentice very heavily with The Moon card in Tarot post memory loss, but then associate them more with The Star card pre-memory loss. Icing on the cake is that these cards go in succession numerically. B]


	11. Orbit (Muriel, MC. GladiatorAU)

**Orbit:** _The curved (or circular) path that is followed by a celestial object._

 

 

It would be better if Lucio had put Muriel in the ring with  _ Asra _ .

 

It would be terrible, and cruel, and everything that Muriel associates with the Count, but at least Muriel would already _know_ what to do.

 

Muriel would rather fall on his own sword than hurt Asra.

 

When Muriel sees his opponent--dragged bodily towards the center of the ring by a guard on either side and deposited, carelessly, near his feet--he does not know what to do.

 

The crowd jeers loudly, vocalizing their unanimous disappointment in the match.  They come here for sport, not slaughter. Death is a performance in this place, and Muriel has learned that they hate to see the act end too soon.  Muriel towers over his opponent (would tower over them even if they were not on their knees) and feels the cold hands of anxiety tightening against his throat.

 

Emrys is covered in chains.  Not the heavy iron chains of a gladiator but rather the delicate golden loops and links that one might find on jewelry.  Waterfalls of chains fall from the polished golden collar that rests, now, around Emrys’ neck. They drape across their shoulders and twist down to their wrists, meeting manacled cuffs that match the metal of the collar.  Chains drip down Emrys’ back, drape across their chest and come to circle their waist, pooling at the thin white fabric of a garment more suited for a concubine than a gladiator.

 

The crass slurs and sharp words of the bloodthirsty bystanders echo loudly in the never ending circle of the coliseum.  Muriel watches their foul intentions seep into Emrys, their body bowing to the onslaught of people calling for the  _ Scourge of the South _ to murder them, to get it over with, so that they can move on to a  _ real  _ battle, to higher forms of ‘entertainment’.  Above all of them, Muriel swears he can hear Lucio’s laughter.  The audience would not complain so, if they knew the extent of Emrys’ abilities.  Their bound wrists are a joke, their ridiculous ensemble is a joke, this whole arrangement is a joke.  Emrys could rip him limb from limb, regardless of the handicaps and humiliations Lucio has so theatrically bestowed upon them.

 

Muriel knows--because he has  _ already tried _ \--that he cannot see Emrys as an enemy.  Try as he might to stop himself, he sees Emrys in the shades that Asra has painted them with.  Eyes that he has watched Asra struggle to name the color of for years; the hands that have always treated Asra with kindness; the person who cast aside an opulent mask of glittering crystal suncatchers to wear a papier mache  _ monstrosity  _ crowded in a rainbow of polished sea shells and imperfect pearls.  He can see only their lips, the lips that he had caught Asra staring at, the lips that had smiled happily beneath the mask that Asra had spent weeks making.  (And even longer pretending he had not made it solely for Emrys.) 

 

Those lips utter his name, and it feels  _ wrong _ to hear it here, in the coliseum.  In this place where he is not  _ Muriel _ , he cannot  _ be _ Muriel, he cannot bridge the gap of cognitive dissonance that is  _ Muriel _ and the things he has  _ done _ .

 

“Muriel,” they say again, and he lets them draw him back to reality with those eyes, lets them coax away the memories that feel more like nightmares.  “We don't have to fight.”

 

Emrys chases his gaze even as he looks away.  They say it with such certainty. Such  _ finality.   _ As if it were really that simple.

 

As if Emrys and he could merely dig their heels in and Lucio would sit back and watch, stupefied, with no leverage at all to call upon.

 

“He got you to come here by asking?”  Muriel reminds them.

 

It is Emrys, this time, who looks away.  They fold into themselves for a moment, then straighten.  “He won't kill us both, Muriel--he  _ can _ , but he  _ won’t.   _ It would feel too much like a defeat.  What would he have left?”

 

“Asra.”

 

Alone.  

 

Unprotected.

 

He waits for Emrys to deny it.  They won't, but he waits. He wonders, for just a brief moment, what it would be like if Emrys did.  If they had the words to assure him that the world was wider than the endless circle of the coliseum.

 

Lucio claps.  The beginning of the match.

 

“What do I do?”  Emrys whispers. Perhaps it is towards him.  Perhaps it is towards the universe itself. Can they still hear The Arcana answering them, above the roar of vicious spectators?  Above the undying echoes of Lucio’s nasally laughter?

 

“You do what you must.  You free us both.”

 

It has never been death he feared.  It has never been death that has kept his hands bloody.  Not his own death, at least. “Don’t end it too fast. He wants a show.”

 

Muriel would rather fall on his own sword than hurt Asra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will forever be peeved at myself for having written this before chapter XI but then fumbling around with a few key sentences for so long that I did not post it until well after. :)
> 
> Also, my laptop is being fixed sooooo plz lmk if there is any weird formatting. ^^


	12. Barycenter (Lucio, MC. GladiatorAU)

_**Barycenter** :  The point around which two or more celestial bodies orbit._   
  


 

“I didn't think you’d actually _ do it _ !” Lucio crows.  He saunters towards them, eyes glowing in the deep dark of the coliseum dungeons, his every movement howling his victory.  Trailing closely at his heels are two lanky hound dogs with wide, long grins to match the one worn by their Master. Their muzzles are stained red.

 

Lucio’s satisfaction cloys the room, making Emrys’ head  _ spin _ as the air seems to thin under the pressure of his predatory exuberance.  The guards stationed at the doors supplicate themselves as he walks by, and Emrys feels Lucio’s sense of superiority feeding into itself even as he feigns utter ignorance to their servile posture.  The guards tense as Lucio approaches Emrys, infinitely more weary of them now that they are covered in Muriel’s blood. Whatever fear has its hold on the guards is lost to Lucio. If anything, he seems more enticed now that he has seen Emrys nearly kill his prized Scourge.

 

(Emrys’ stomach dips unpleasantly as they find, again, the well of guilt hiding below their ribs.  The dread of hesitating to strike the killing blow. The wave of emotion, equal parts relief and reproach, as Lucio had turned his thumb downward, sparing Muriel his life and ending the match.  The cards are far from them but still they can hear Death’s withering hiss; they failed to heed it’s warning. They failed to free Muriel from his endless cycle, and, in doing so, they have found themselves caught in the same bonds that imprisoned him in the first place.)

 

Lucio circles them, his lightning strike eyes consuming them greedily.  They might call the way he looks down his nose at them vulture-like except for the fact that vultures are scavengers and Lucio prefers  _ live _ prey.  It is that thought that keeps them still as he stops behind them, his fingertips caressing against the bared skin of their shoulder blade, dipping into the fresh,  _ wet  _ blood that he finds there.  “I thought it would take more.” he admits, his voice no less victorious, no less mocking. “It’s not often I find myself so  _ pleased _ to be  _ wrong _ .”

 

He strokes his fingers down their back, painting long stripes of blood down the precious little of their skin that is not already tainted.  He pauses as he reaches their hip, hovering. He pauses, and does nothing, and dares them to guess what it is he intends to do. They stare resolutely forward, clenching their jaw.  He  _ wants  _ to see them react.

 

He laughs.

 

He slides his hand along their hip like it belongs there, as if he has somehow earned this easy familiarity.  They’re not quite sure what to make of the hunger they see in his eyes as he comes to face them again. It’s more amicable, less virulent, than they expected it to be.  There is something  _ giddy  _ in the curve of his lips.  It fills them with more trepidation than the unhinged look they had expected to find.

 

The true terror is in realizing that Lucio is not something that they can predict.

 

He tugs gently at the long golden chain that runs down their sternum.  They mean to resist the pull but they are so weak on their feet that they sway and cant easily towards him.  They stumble, nearly colliding with his chest, and feel shame flare hot across their back as they right themself.  They meet his eyes as they do, straightening their posture meaningfully in defiance. Lucio’s white hot gaze gleams back at them, sparkling with amusement.  He leans in, breath hot against their ear, and he wonders, aloud: “What else would you do for me, Emrys? If I asked?”

 

The guards are watching, but Lucio doesn't care.  Doesn't  _ mind. _  He likes having an audience.

 

Emrys feels one of the hounds lapping the dripping blood off their fingers and they  _ flinch  _ but they dare not look away from the greater threat in front of them.

 

“You never  _ ask _ for anything, Lucio.”

 

He tilts their chin towards him, his gaze half-lidded and satiated.  His lips curl into a lazy smile.

 

“No.” he agrees, “I suppose not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Computer is still broken but I wanted to post something. *shrug emoji* idk if I like all of this buuut I'm tired or re-writing it on my phone. :3


	13. Cetus (Nadia/MC)

**Cetus:** _The constellation depicting Cetus, a serpentine sea monster from Greek mythology.  It is located in the Northern sky, below Pieces._

 

 

Nadia’s mouth is hot against their neck, her lips soft as silk as she traces them along Emrys’ throat.  Her knee is placed promisingly between their own, her hair rains down on them in a waterfall of brilliant tyrian purple as she kisses, sucks, _bites--_

 

“I’m still worried about those eels.”  Emrys finds themself uttering, senselessly.

 

Nadia’s jaw goes slack at their throat as she freezes.  They don’t know why they thought it now, honestly, and they know even less why they had to _say_ it, but it’s hard to deny that the undignified look on her face as she pulls back to stare at them incredulously is almost, _almost_ worth the fact that she has momentarily stopped lavishing her attentions on them.

 

Emrys giggles breathlessly as one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows arches high in annoyance.  “I’m sorry,” they manage, “I’m in bed with the most beautiful person in the world, I don’t know why I said that.”

 

“I don’t know if flattery will be enough to buy your way out of this situation.”  Nadia intones stonily to them, pinning them first with her stare and then with her hands.  Her elegant, long fingers wrap around their wrists as she presses them into the mattress, her eyes boring into theirs.

 

“I wasn’t teasing on purpose, it’s an actual concern this time, I promise.”  Emrys chants, trying to sound repentant around the grin that’s found its way onto their face.  And it’s _true_ : they are actually concerned about the state of the departed Count’s discarded pets.

 

Nadia stays silent, tasting their words for a moment, before she finally huffs out an amused breath.  She smiles down at them, eyes heavy lidded and full of affection. She presses her face into their chest, and the sound of her laughter ignites a warmth in them that feels _endless_.  “Very well, Emrys.  I did vow that I would never leave you unfulfilled whilst you were in my bed, though, I admit, this is not quite what I meant.”  A flush rises up their cheeks at that. “Share with me your concerns, my sweet.”

 

“I only…”  It takes them a moment to organize their stream of thoughts, mesmerized as they are by her beauty, her touch.  “We should send them back home, shouldn’t we? Like you did with Sacha?”

 

The Countess hums.  Emrys can see that it is a thought she herself has had before.  “It would be best for them to be returned to a climate more suited to their kind, but I am afraid that the methods by which they may be transported are...complicated.  If the story I have heard is true, then Lucio lost no fewer than _ten_ servants just to place them in the water.”

 

“I could try it.”  Emrys offers.

 

Nadia looks at them with affront.  They backtrack before the protest in her expression has a chance to translate into words.

 

“With magic,” they amend.  “My Master is very good at water manipulation, and the two of us practiced it often, so I don’t think my confidence is misplaced.  I’d just move the water the eels are in, and them with it. No risk of being bitten involved. Promise.”

 

Her expression softens.  Her fingers come to brush, almost reverently, against their face.  “If you are certain that there is no danger to you in this task, Emrys, then I shall not stand in the way of it.”  

 

Nadia kisses their lips, and Emrys finds that it is an easier thing to let themselves sink into now that the sad sight of vampire eels attempting to burrow into the silt is no longer nagging at their conscience.

 

“Happy?”  Nadia breathes as she pulls away.

 

“Very much so,” they say, looking at her pointedly.  She does not quite manage to hide the blush that settles over her aristocratic cheekbones.

 

“Delightful.”  She moves to straddle their hips.  “Well then, if your worries about the eels are assuaged, _at last_ ,” she throws them a warning look, daring them to say otherwise, “I should like to return to the previous task at hand.  You may begin by making up for your interruptions.” Her hands start working to divest Emrys’ of their clothes. “ _Now_ , if you please.”

 

They don’t think about anything else, after that.


	14. Nova (Asra/MC)

**_Nova_ ** _:  A star that unexpectedly becomes very bright, then later returns to its normal brightness._

 

He wakes up one day and their eyes are just.  Blank.

 

“Emrys?”  His mouth tastes of bitter ash; the sound of his voice little more than a dry croak.  His heart pounds against the cage of his ribs, the beating of it so powerful and _sharp_ it feels like his bones might break open.

 

“Emrys,” he tries again, louder, more urgent, but it’s—

 

Their eyes are open, but they don’t see him.

 

The distance between them on the bed has never felt longer; it is only an arms length away, the journey only a portion of a second, but he can’t get there fast enough.  ( _He wasn’t there when they needed him, he_ **_wasn’t there_ ** ).  His weight jostles the mattress violently as he crosses the endless sea of sheets.  Emrys floats upon them, adrift.

 

He cradles them in his arms.  Through the chaos and the tumult, he manages to keep his hands gentle.  A sickening sense of deja vu overcomes him.

 

No—not deja vu.

 

It is not merely a _feeling_ of having been here before.  He _knows_ he’s been here before.

 

“Emrys,” he begs them, “come back to me.”

 

They don’t react.

 

He entreats them ( _don’t leave me, Emrys,_ **_don’t leave me in a world without you again_ ** ) but his broken sobs fall on deaf ears.

  
  


It happened again.

  
  


Faust swims her way through ripples of sheets.  The blankets and pillows lay capitulated in the aftermath of a storm.  The cool press of her scales against his feverpitched skin is jarring.  He is sick with emotions, sweat and tears pouring down his face. Faust wraps herself around him, offering him a faint squeeze of reassurance.  Her energy reaches out to comfort him, a mental echo of her embrace, but...

 

He is the wreckage of a ship buried beneath the cruel waves of a lifeless ocean.  Comfort is only a shadow. A distant shape, sailing far above him.

 

Faust’s tail stays coiled tightly around his wrist as she comes to lay somberly against Emrys’ collarbone, her head nuzzling against their chin as she settles there.  He searches her memories for some form of clue, not knowing what it is he expects to find. They were both fast asleep. Reaching through the bond he shares with his familiar, he feels only his own sorrow reflected back at him.

 

Cicadas are singing, harmonizing with the trill of the early morning birds.  Wind rustles gently through the trees, the sweet smells of the market float into the shop on a wayward breeze.  Life continues on outside, indifferent to Asra’s entire existence crumbling into pieces.

 

The sun still came up.  The sky remains intact.

 

It is a spitefully beautiful day outside, as if the juxtaposition exists just to mock his grief.  

 

...What if Emrys doesn’t wake up this time?

 

What if the tide has pulled them, for the last time, somewhere he can no longer reach?

 

How many more times can he re-teach them everything?  He will try forever, but how many tries does he get before he has run out of chances?  How long will it take for their mind to degrade under the stress? Before their very being is forced to cave beneath the pressure of this endless cycle?

 

He leans down to kiss their forehead.  “Forget.” He whispers, his lips lingering against their temple.  “Forget, and—” his voice catches on his next breath. He forces himself to rearrange his words.  He cannot bid Emrys to come back _to him_ .  He cannot lay any claim to them while there is magic on his tongue.  No matter now slight that claim may seem. “Wake up.” He feels his magic coalesce within him, answering the call of his desperation.  Bending someone’s memories to your own will is an evil practice, but it blooms inside of him as something that feels _gentle_.  He lets his spell wash over Emrys, envisioning only warmth, only good intent.

 

He can feel their eyelashes flutter against his tear stained cheek as they blink, slowly.

 

His hands refuse to let go, lingering even as Emrys sits up, pulling away to look at him.  “Asr—Master?” they question him, wincing as they gingerly lie back down, their eyes unfocused.  They blink long and meaningfully, a motion he has come to associate with one of their memory induced headaches.  Instructions are on the cusp of his lips but Emrys is already breathing deeply, eyes closing again as they focus on the present, on their chest rising and falling, until their breath becomes completely steady.  It takes several ( _heart wrenching_ ) minutes before they can open their eyes and look at him again.

 

Relief explodes in his heart as they do.  Their eyes are cognizant. Aware.

 

And full of confusion.

 

Emrys’ thumb comes to rest beneath one of his eyes.  His tears catch on their skin, but he is smiling.

 

“Master?  What happened?”

 

_It worked._

 

**_It worked._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* _It's another two-parter._
> 
> My concept of oneshots is, apparently, flawed but HEY! at least I update this more often that I do/have anything with Actual Chapters.
> 
> Also I wrote this listening to **Flood On The Floor by Purity Ring** on repeat. It is one of my many Asra/MC songs and I rec it to you. 
> 
> Someday I will make a playlist but hmmm that sounds like work.


End file.
